


Roses and Rat Poison

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: Original Work
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Murder Mystery, Period Piece, Poisoning, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26477533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: Tarabeth knew, within fifteen minutes of meeting her fiance, that she did not love him.A bookish girl is engaged to the son of fertilizer merchants. Things don't go quite as planned.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Unhappily Arranged Bride/Unhappily Arranged Groom
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25
Collections: Darkest Night 2020





	Roses and Rat Poison

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Tarabeth knew, within fifteen minutes of meeting her fiance, that she did not love him. 

In all the stories she'd read (all the stories her Nana Emmy had told her), love at first sight was a given. From the stories she'd heard giggled by the housemaids, something that wasn't love but made a good replacement happened pretty similarly. She had, admittedly, not met that many people over the course of her life, but she'd managed to find some kind of positive quality with most of them. 

She did not find any with Marcel.

He was a long, bony youth - at eighteen, a year younger than she was. He had a gawkiness to him, as if he was still caught up in the throes of his last growth spurt. He would flush every time he met her eyes, then stare down at his hands, as if he was trying to remember what to say. 

Marcel's parents sat on either side of him, and they talked a mile a minute, as if they were one unit. His mother had a peacock feathered fan that she fluttered compulsively, and she had painted her lips a deep crimson that looked like a slash of blood. His father was an equally gawky man, missing his left hand. The cuff of his red velvet jacket had been sewn shut, and he rested his other elbow on his other thigh. 

"Of course, we do remember when your parents died," Marcel's mother was saying. "Your mother and I were never _close_ , per se, but she used to show her watercolors at all the little parties we were throwing."

"A devil for parties, your father was," Marcel's father added. 

Mr. Broderick, her solicitor and legal guardian, sat next to her, holding the bone china teacup carefully in one hand, his pinkie extended. He was always such a fastidious man - he reminded her of a cat sometimes, all slightly affronted expression and white gloved hands. 

"You'll be able to hold your own parties, when you're a married lady," said Marcel's mother. Her fan kept waving. Her wig seemed to be held together by some kind of industrial glue, and not a hair on it budged from the breeze. "Isn't that exciting?"

The ticking of the drawing room clock was very loud, and Tarabeth glanced over at it. They had been here for almost twenty minutes, and she wanted to scream. _Is this what being married is going to be like? Stuck in one place, unable to say anything but smile?_

"Marcel's never been one for a party," said his father - said Tarabeth's future father in law, and that was a terrifying thought. This was all terrifying. Why had she agreed to this? 

_Because the money will run out eventually, and the servants need to be paid,_ thought Tarabeth, ever practical in her head. _I can't see Nana Emmy thrown out on the street, either. She's worked too hard to be sent to the poorhouse, and me with her._

"Married life has turned many the shrinking violet into a social butterfly," said Tarabeth's future mother in law. 

"I suspect, when you have two violets, they simply sit in the vase together," Mr. Broderick said dryly. 

"Well, this is definitely a cosy vase to be snuggled into," said Marcel's mother, casting a critical eye around the sitting room. 

_She must have told me her name at some point,_ Tarabeth thought. _It would be rude to ask at this point._

"The children will probably be much more sociable," said Marcel's father, and that sent a ball of ice down Tarabeth's throat, straight into her stomach. She took some comfort in the equally distressed look that passed across Marcel's face. At least he seemed to be equally distressed. 

"It does often go that way, doesn't it?" Marcel's mother's fan kept fluttering, the peacock eyes seeming to blink at Tarabeth. 

"Marcel breeds roses," Tarabeth's future father in law told her. 

"Roses," Tarabeth repeated, and her voice sounded insipid to her own ears. 

"Oh yes," said her future father in law. "He's won prizes."

"How does one win prizes for roses?" Tarabeth asked. She'd heard of people breeding hounds or horses, but it wasn't as if you could judge how well a rose could retrieve or jump. The image of a rosebush in a pot chasing after a fox slid into her mind, and she bit her lip to keep from giggling.

"Interesting cultivars," said Marcel. He had a nasal voice, and it was the first thing he had said to her since he had greeted her. "I'm trying to grow a purple rose." 

"Purple," Tarabeth echoed. "I didn't know roses came in purple." 

"They don't," said Marcel's mother. "At least. Not yet. Still working on it."

"Indeed," said Marcel's father. "We're nearly there."

_Are you the ones growing them, or is he?_ Tarabeth wondered. 

Marcel was staring moodily down into his teacup, and Tarabeth was seized with the urge to slap it out of his hand. She resisted, although less for his sake than for the teacup's.

And that, as it was, was that. 

There were probably other things involved, but Mr. Broderick and Marcel's parents went off to the study to talk specifics, and Nana Emmy was ushering Tarabeth out of the room, while Marcel ambled out a different door.

It all felt rather anticlimactic, truth be told. 

* * * 

"I don't like him," said Nana Emmy that night, as she carefully brushed Tarabeth's hair. 

"He's... fine," said Tarabeth, which wasn't exactly a ringing endorsement. 

At least he wasn't horribly old, or horribly young. He wasn't ugly. He didn't seem to say much, but at least he hadn't been particularly brutish. A life of living in a house with someone who ignored her, while she ignored him, did have some vague appeal.

Tarabeth didn't know what she wanted to do with her life. She'd mostly gone along with whatever Mr. Broderick told her to do, since he hadn't ever told her to do anything particularly unpleasant. This was the first thing he'd ever told her to do that she outright balked at, and she didn't even see the point of arguing.

What would be the point? He was in charge of her fortune, her home, and everything she owned. He could have her thrown in an asylum, or marry her off to someone richer but even worse. Marcel might be sulky and rude, but... well, it could always be worse. 

"I didn't raise you to go along with _fine_ ," scolded Nana Emmy. "You need to be happy." 

"I'll manage," Tarabeth said, and she mostly believed herself. She'd keep to herself, he'd keep to himself. He'd have his roses, she'd have her books. She'd heard of marriages that had much worse terms.

"He's not even noble," Nana Emmy grumbled, as she began to braid Tarabeth's hair. "Do you know how his family came into money? His grandfather discovered a new way of extracting..." She made a vague hand motion, "from manure, and made a fortune on fertilizer."

"Fertilizer," Tarabeth echoed. _At least you can't really hurt anyone with fertilizer. Barring dropping a sack of it on someone's head._

"You're too good for some... manure prince," Nana Emmy groused, and she tied a ribbon at the bottom of the braid. "Can you believe the nerve of that man?"

"Who, Marcel?" _I need to not think about him as the manure prince. It will pop out of my mouth at the wrong moment, and that's not a good way to begin a marriage, is it?_

"No," said Nana Emmy. "Mr. Broderick. Marrying my Tarabeth off to a... _fertilizer merchant_." She said the words with the same venom one might have used for "child murderer." 

Tarabeth took Nana Emmy's hand in her own, and she kissed it. "I don't need a great love story," she told her nursemaid, her tone serious. "He... did not look cruel. And Mr. Broderick would never put me in danger."

Nana Emmy made a dismissive sound, but she squeezed Tarabeth's fingers with her own thin ones, and kissed the top of Tarabeth's head. 

* * *

The second time Tarabeth met Marcel, they were on his family's country estate. They were shepherded out of the big entrance hall and out a side door, with Marcel's mother (Tarabeth really _did_ need to remember her name) saying something about how he should "show her your latest project, pet." 

They were accompanied by a maid, as they made their way along the gravel path. Marcel walked stiffly, with his hands at his sides, and Tarabeth had to hurry to follow him. He was taller than her, and his long legged stride meant she had to take a step and a half for every one of his. The maid (clearly a chaperone) was even shorter than Tarabeth, and she was practically running. 

They stopped in front of a little shed, which Marcel disappeared into, then came back out wearing a pair of very thick leather gloves. _Are we going hunting?_ Tarabeth wondered, as he put them on stiffly, and then he was making his way towards a gate. 

The silence - apart from the crunch of gravel under their feet and the rustling of the trees - was starting to get to Tarabeth. She'd never been bothered by quiet before, but every time she glanced over at Marcel, she saw his jaw clenching. As thick as the gloves were, she couldn't tell if he was clenching his fists. Not that it particularly mattered - he positively reeked of aggrievance, and it was putting Tarabeth on edge. 

"Your mother said you grow roses," Tarabeth said, when the silence became more unbearable than facing his clenched jaw. "That's an unusual hobby."

"Why would it be an unusual hobby?" Marcel said, and his voice was nasal and sharp. "My family made its fortune growing things. I simply perfect them."

_Don't snap at him_ , scolded her internal monologue, which sounded very much like Nana Emmy. "I only meant," Tarabeth said carefully, "that many people prefer to grow things that are more... useful. Like potatoes."

Marcel scoffed, pulling open the door to a greenhouse. Steam and hot air billowed out, and it smelled like green things and humidity. "Potatoes only provide nourishment for the physical form," he told her. "Roses provide food for the _soul_."

"Ah," said Tarabeth, because throwing her head back and laughing incredulously probably wouldn't bode well for their future marriage. 

Marcel held a stiff arm out in front of him, indicating for Tarabeth to walk in front of him. 

There were long, low tables covered in pots of rose bushes. The roses were smaller than Tarabeth had thought they'd be, and all different shades of pink and red. The scent coming off of them was strong enough that Tarabeth fancied she could see a shimmer of haze around them. The scent of roses filled her whole head, like smoke in a windowless room. 

It was a little choking, truth be told, like standing next to someone wearing too much perfume. The heat and the overwhelming scents seemed to be swallowing her up like a great hole in the ground, and it was hard to breathe. She reached for a rose at random, turning the small pink blossom up towards her face, wrapping her fingers around the stem. 

"What can you tell me about this one?" she asked, because when she caught his expression, he looked as if she'd just grabbed him by the genitals, instead of the rose.

"Second generation," he said stiffly. "I bred one of the house roses with a rose my father brought back from his travels."

"What do you breed them for?" Tarabeth took a sniff of the rose, the scent heavy and cloying, strong enough she could almost taste it. She very pointedly did not say _how do you even breed roses?_ although she was dreadfully curious. 

"Color," said Marcel. "Size. Scent. Thorns." Each word came out of his mouth like a tooth being extracted. 

"You breed roses for thorns?" Tarabeth let go of the one rose, and made her way towards another one, at a farther table. It was a deeper red, and the blossom was bigger. These rosebushes were bigger, like the ones that had grown on the trellis in the garden at her parents’ house.

"Whyever would I do that?" Marcel seemed genuinely affronted at the suggestion, but Tarabeth heard the maid stifle a giggle. She smiled to herself, looking down at the crimson blossoms tilting towards her. Their scent was a lot thicker, and a lot deeper. 

"Home defense," Tarabeth said. "I read that in some countries that have naturally growing thorny plants, they use them on their gates to keep intruders out."

Marcel sniffed. "It wouldn't be good for the roses," he said, as if imparting some great knowledge, then; "no, those still have thorns!"

Too late. 

Tarabeth's hand had closed around one of the stems of the rose, tilting it towards her. She didn't even realize that the thorn had embedded into her finger until she pulled it away, at which point there was a sharp sting, and a rush of warmth over her palm. She looked down, slightly surprised at the redness of her own blood against the paleness of her palm. She must have hit a vein, because the blood was running down her palm, over her wrist. 

She caught Marcel's eye, and he made a choked off little noise, like a sob or a hiccup. Then his knees buckled, and he had fallen inelegantly down. His rear end was still up in the air, and his face was pressed into the floor of the greenhouse. 

Tarabeth made eye contact with the maid, who didn't look particularly worried, although she was bending down and rearranging him so that he was flat on his back. There was mud on his cheek.

"What just happened?" Tarabeth elevated her bleeding finger, and more blood dripped down. 

"The young master is _dreadfully_ afraid of blood," said the maid. She dug around in a pocket of her apron, then offered Tarabeth a handkerchief. "At least he's better than he was."

"Better?" Tarabeth staunched the flow of blood with the handkerchief. Marcel's face had relaxed in his swoon, and he might have been handsome, in the right light. 

"He used to be sick, then pass out," said the maid. 

"Well," said Tarabeth, after a moment of silence, "I suppose even small steps towards improvement are still improvement."

The maid let out an ugly snort of laughter, endearing in its sincerity, and the sound seemed to get swallowed up by the mist and the sweet, sweet scent of the roses. "I do apologize," the maid said, looking faintly sheepish, but still obviously trying not to smile. 

"Nothing to apologize for," Tarabeth said, still pressing down on her finger. "But if he's terrified of blood, why grow _roses_ , of all things?"

"Roses are beautiful," said Marcel, his voice as stiff as his limbs. He stood up, as full as affronted dignity as a wet cat, and he glared at her. "They don't have any use at all except to _be_ beautiful. It would destroy their purpose, to have them a... home defense." He sniffed, and drew himself up to his full height (which was a head taller than she was), and marched his way out of the greenhouse.

Tarabeth blinked, and looked down at the red splotched handkerchief. "Well," she said to the maid, "that was an auspicious start."

Another ugly bray of laughter, and Tarabeth smiled in spite of herself.

* * *

Time passed, both interminably slow and far too quickly. Tarabeth didn't do much - she didn't seem _required_ to do much. She wasn't consulted about things such as her wedding dress, just informed. She would wear the white lace gown, she would carry a bouquet of roses (hopefully thornless, or the groom might end up collapsed on the aisle), she would recite the vows. 

She retreated to the library in her own home whenever she could, and tried to ignore the way that her things were being packed up. She and Marcel were apparently going to be moving back and forth between their two houses, since both were rather grand, and “it wouldn’t do to leave such a nice place shuttered up, would it?” as her mother in law had said. She was a little foggy on the details, truth be told - she didn't want to leave her library, but he didn't want to leave his roses. 

She assumed, at least. He hadn't said as much to her. She just knew she'd be living there, at least for a little while after the wedding. Mr. Broderick tended to come into whatever room she happened to be sitting in, share the information as if he was reciting some epic, and then leave again without saying anything else. 

She'd always been one to ignore a problem until it went away - it had worked in the past. Nana Emmy had once tried to outwait her over a plate of turnips. Tarabeth had won, after four hours of resolute staring at the table. 

_Maybe he'll keel over and have a heart attack_ , Tarabeth thought dully, as she stared into her reflection. Her mother in law's maids (and she _still_ couldn't seem to hold the woman's name in her head - this must be bordering on rudeness by now) were twittering about her, doing this and that with her hair. 

"It really is thick," said her mother in law. "I know that it's traditional for your own mother to help you with these sorts of things, before the wedding, but, well..."

"My mother died," Tarabeth said, possibly more bluntly than she meant to. She caught the slightly shocked look on her mother in law's face in the mirror, and she cleared her throat. "I'm sorry," she said, and she did her best to sound sincere. "I'm... not very used to these sorts of things." 

"Of course," said her mother in law, and she put a hand on Tarabeth's shoulder, squeezing it. "It can take time, to adjust to a normal family."

_I don't want a normal family, I just want to be left alone_ , Tarabeth didn't say - she just gave another wan smile in the mirror.

"To think you've been so lacking in female companionship," said Tarabeth's mother in law, as she took up a brush and began to run in through Tarabeth's hair. "Mr. Broderick, bless his soul, is a very nice man, but he doesn't understand how much a girl needs a mother."

"I was raised by my nursemaid," Tarabeth said, and she tried to keep the reproach out of her voice.

Tarabeth's mother in law sniffed. "A nursemaid is quite different from a mother," she said, and her tone was surprisingly scornful.

Tarabeth resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I'm sure you're right," she said, keeping her tone neutral. 

"Ma'am," said a voice from the door, and Tarabeth looked over her shoulder to see a man standing there, wearing greasy black leathers and looking very out of place amongst all the gilt and velvet.

"Reg," said Tarabeth's mother in law, "I've told you not to come up here."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," said the man, "but you've also told me to talk to you directly when we were out of rat poison -"

"This is _not_ a thing to be discussed here," Tarabeth's mother in law said sharply. “I’ll come find you later. Go wait for me in the kitchen.” Then she met Tarabeth's eye in the mirror. "When you run your own household," she said, her tone solicitous, "you shall learn just what a trial it is."

_I'd rather let Nana Emmy keep it up_ , Tarabeth thought. "I'm sure I will," Tarabeth said. 

"I will, of course, be happy to help," said her mother in law. 

"Of course,"Tarabeth said faintly. She looked at her own reflection in the mirror, and didn't recognize it. So much makeup, with her dark hair being pinned up. 

"You are going to give me so many lovely grandchildren," said her mother in law, and Tarabeth's heart beat a little faster. Her cheeks were heating up under all of that powder, and she had to remember not to bite her lip, because they would smudge. 

_I just want to go back to my library_ , Tarabeth thought, as she inhabited her body off to the left. _My library, and that book on orchids I started last night._ She had bought it from the door to door peddler who came every few weeks. 

Hopefully he’d come to her new house, too.

* * *

A week before the wedding, Tarabeth and Marcel took tea together. Nana Emmy was too busy to chaperone, and all the maids were on wedding preparation, since there was going to be a big breakfast before the wedding, and the big dinner afterwards. 

Tarabeth had been dragged (rather unwillingly, although she'd put her shawl on once Nana Emmy had told her briskly to behave) to Marcel's house, and now an elderly butler snored in the corner, as she and her affianced sat on opposite couches and glared at each other. 

Maybe it was the manic energy humming through the whole house, or maybe Tarabeth was simply tired of the whole affair, but something led to her speaking, after a full five minutes of sullen silence from the both of them.

"Why don't you like me?" She took a bite of a scone before he had a chance to answer, mostly to save herself from saying anything else embarrassing. 

Marcel looked up at her, and he looked startled. She noticed, for the first time, that his eyes were grey, and very clear. "Why do you think I don't like you?"

"You never talk to me," Tarabeth said.

"Well, you hardly talk to me," Marcel countered.

"I don't really talk to anyone," Tarabeth said, which was true. 

"Nonsense," said Marcel. "I've seen you talking with my mother!"

"Your mother talks _at_ me," said Tarabeth, which probably wasn't the wisest thing to say, especially when the woman might walk in any moment now. 

There was a delicate pause, like a soap bubble suspended between them. Then Marcel gave an ugly snort of laughter, and Tarabeth found herself smiling in spite of herself. 

"She does that," Marcel said. "I've learned to tune her out and just go along, at this point."

"I suspect that's what's gotten us into this mess," Tarabeth said, and she was faintly surprised at how resigned she sounded. She liked to keep her voice fairly even, most of the time. 

Another ugly snort. "Do you not like me?" He sounded almost anxious, and she glanced up at his face. There was a furrow in brow, forming a deep line between his eyebrows. She wanted to reach out and press her thumb into it. 

"I don't know you," she said, surprising herself with her own bluntness. "I suppose this isn't too much of a shock, as I do not know many people, but I feel like I... very much do not know you."

"I hardly know you," Marcel countered. "Perhaps we should get to know each other a bit, before we get married."

Neither of them said _I do not want to get married to you_ , but it was on the very tip of her tongue. She suspected it was on the tip of his as well, from the way he was looking at them. 

"Why do you grow roses?" Tarabeth asked. It was the only thing she really knew about him, come to think of it.

"They're beautiful," Marcel said automatically, and then he cleared his throat. "I'm afraid of blood," he told Tarabeth, with the air of someone disclosing they had a venereal disease, or maybe a vestigial limb. "I've been afraid since I was very small. I saw..." He trailed off, and he shivered. 

"You saw?" Tarabeth probed.

He was mumbling now, and all she caught was “... got into the rat poison," Marcel said. There was a far off look in his eyes, and his knuckles were white on his own knees. More mumbling - she just caught “sick, dreadfully sick. And there was... blood..." He trailed off, and he looked clammy, like he was about to pass out.

"What does rat poison have to do with roses?" Tarabeth asked, because she didn't know what she'd do if he swooned again.

"Oh," said Marcel, and he cleared his throat. He seemed to be coming back to himself, at least. "My grandfather saw how bad my fear was, when I was a small child. I used to be worse than I am now." 

"Were you?" _How can it be worse?_

"I used to soil myself," said Marcel, " _then_ pass out."

"Well, at least now you can keep your trousers clean," said Tarabeth, in some kind of attempt at a joke. 

"Half the time it happens in the greenhouse and I land in fertilizer," said Marcel, "so in certain respects things haven't changed."

There was a beat - that had been a _very_ improper thing to say. 

Then Tarabeth began to giggle, and Marcel smiled back at her. He had a very nice smile, and it made the corners of his eyes crinkle up. 

"Roses use a different sort of fertilizer," said Marcel. "Bone, and blood, sometimes ash. My grandfather..." His face softened. "He was not a good man," he said, as if it pained him, "but I think that he loved me very much. And he loved his roses. He showed me how to take care of them, and to show me that as terrified of blood as I was... beautiful things could come from it."

"You must miss him," Tarabeth said. 

"I do," said Marcel. "He listened to me." He cleared his throat. "Do you ever miss your parents?"

_That's a personal question_ , she almost said. "I don't remember them," she said instead. "Nana Emmy - she was my mother's nursemaid as well. She was probably too old, when I came along." Tarabeth twirled a piece of hair around her own finger, a nervous habit from when she was small. "She says I look like my parents. There's a painting of them, hanging in one of the bedrooms. I was still in swaddling when they died, and I don't remember them." 

"I'm sorry," said Marcel. "My family can be... trying, but I cannot imagine not having one."

"Nana Emmy is my family," said Tarabeth, "and... it can be nice. Freeing. Not having anyone expecting anything from you."

"I sometimes feel like nobody expects anything from me," said Marcel, and his voice was surprisingly sad. "I don't know if "freeing" is the word I'd use." 

His eyes met hers, and they held them there - they really were a lovely grey. Eyes that pretty didn't have a right to be on a face that bland. 

Then the parlor door opened, and Marcel's mother bustled in, a whirl of silk and chatter. 

"Tarabeth, we need you for a fitting!" Tarabeth was tugged to her feet, and pulled out and into the dark paneled halls. _I suppose he isn't all bad,_ she thought, as she was pulled into another room, her future mother in law indicating for her to stand on a stool. 

* * *

The morning of the wedding, Tarabeth woke up in her bed by herself for what was possibly the last time, and she stared at the ceiling. There was the familiar stain that she'd always thought looked like a cat's head, and there was her bookcase, crammed with all the books of her childhood. There was her trunk, packed in the corner and ready to be taken with her on honeymoon.

Oh god.

Tarabeth rolled onto her stomach and pulled her pillow over her head. _In the books, there's always some split second rescue before a marriage like this. A long lost rich relative who'd disappeared on some adventure, and has only just come back with a fortune and further adventure on the horizon._

Instead, Nana Emmy came in to help her get ready, talking about the pre-wedding breakfast. There had apparently been some drama about the seating arrangements; Tarabeth tuned it out, staring at her own reflection as Nana Emmy brushed her hair. 

"Lady Sparrowind and her wife are in some kind of argument with Lord and Lady Hamsford, so they're going to need to be reseated, or neither of them will come," said Nana Emmy. 

"What are they arguing about?" Tarabeth asked, more to make conversation than because she cared.

"Haven't the foggiest," Nana Emmy said cheerfully. "Herself just informed me that I had to move all the place settings." 

At some point, Tarabeth's mother in law had become "herself," and who was she to argue? 

"I'm sorry," said Tarabeth. "I know it isn't your job."

"It isn't every day that my girl gets married," Nana Emmy said, and she held Tarabeth's eyes in the mirror, one hand going to Tarabeth's shoulder, squeezing. "I love you more than anything, poppet. You know that, right?" 

There was a lump in Tarabeth's throat, and she cleared it, and smiled at Nana Emmy. "I love you too," she said, and was faintly surprised at the fervency in her own voice. 

"Don't be afraid," Nana Emmy said. 

"I'm not," Tarabeth said, possibly a bit quicker than she meant to. 

"Of course you're not," said Nana Emmy, and she patted Tarabeth on the shoulder. "So," she said, all business now, "let's finish getting you ready." 

* * *

When Tarabeth arrived at Marcel's house, her trunk carried by two borrowed footmen, the house seemed very quiet. The hustle and bustle of wedding preparations hadn't reached the front hall, and Tarabeth was reminded of the time she'd gone to some great-aunt's funeral. The same sort of hushed anticipation lying over the house - she half expected to see black crepe draped over the banners, not roses. 

So many roses. _Did Marcel grow these, I wonder,_ she thought, as she made her way towards the big dining room. _I can't imagine him being comfortable seeing them strewn about so._

The two of them hadn't had a chance for another proper talk, since they'd taken tea together. She was still nervous, although it helped to know that the man she was theoretically going to spend her life with did not, in fact, hate her. 

"Your mother was a nervous wreck, the day of her wedding," said Nana Emmy, catching Tarabeth's nervous glance as the two of them made their way towards the noise of the dining room. "She sweated through two pairs of linen gloves."

"Oh," said Tarabeth. She seemed to be existing a bit to the left of herself, and it took a lot of effort just to keep track of what was going on around her. "Where will my trunk be going?"

"Into the carriage," said Nana Emmy. "Off with you to your honeymoon!"

_I don't remember where we're going on our honeymoon_ , Tarabeth thought. _That was probably something I should have been paying attention to._ Her habit of drifting away and letting conversation happen around her had finally come around to bite her, it seemed. 

She recognized Mr. Broderick's back, blocking the view to some alcove, and she could just make out the dark hair of her soon to be husband. They were having some kind of heated conversation, although it was low enough that Tarabeth couldn't make anything out. She could see the way the back of Mr. Broderick's neck was turning red, and that was never a good sign - she could count on one hand the times she'd seen him give any sort of emotional reaction. 

"It is most improper," said Mr. Broderick, and Tarabeth realized that she had stopped walking, to better hear in the small space of the corridor. 

"I assure you -" Marcel began.

"I do not care about your assurances," Mr. Broderick said. He was getting very close to shouting, and that was enough to make Tarabeth freeze in place. 

"You will regret talking to me like that," Marcel snapped, his voice so acid it could have etched metal. He pulled himself further upright, until Tarabeth could just make out his eyes over her solicitor's shoulder. "Tarabeth," he said, and he sounded surprised. 

Mr. Broderick turned around, and he caught Tarabeth's eye. His face was very red. "Tarabeth," he said, and then he cleared his throat. "Tarabeth," he said again, in a smoother voice. "Allow me to escort you to your wedding breakfast." 

"I'd like to have a talk with Marcel," Tarabeth said. 

"Surely you can award your guardian a final breakfast with you?" Mr. Broderick asked, and he shot Marcel a Look. "Your husband shall have you for the rest of your life, my dear."

Tarabeth sighed, but she took his arm. "Of course," she said, and she looked over at Marcel.

He refused to meet her eyes, staring at his feet. He was still blushing, all the way up to his ears. She couldn't get the look on his face out of her mind as she let Mr. Broderick lead her into the dining room. 

* * * 

Tarabeth's mother in law had told her that the pre-wedding breakfast would be "an intimate affair." There were at least thirty people in the large dining room, and Tarabeth tried not to think about what kind of intimacy that might imply. 

The place setting next to her said _Groom_ (her own said "Bride," which wasn't her name, but she could get the message), but Mr. Broderick leaned over, trading his own across the table with it and settling down next to her.

"I have some things I wish to discuss with you, after breakfast," he told her, and he shot Marcel a meaningful look as her fiancé sat across from her. "Pertaining to your upcoming nuptials."

_What on earth is he talking about?_ Tarabeth thought, and she shot Marcel a confused look, then gave Mr. Broderick what she hoped was a supportive smile. "We don't need to wait until after breakfast," she said. "As we are sitting here now, and I suspect things will be very busy very soon." 

"We do," Mr. Broderick said cryptically. He patted her on the hand, in a way that always made her roll her eyes, and she shot Marcel another concerned look. 

He was still staring down into his plate, and would not meet her eyes. 

* * *

The breakfast was uneventful. Tarabeth's mother in law kept bustling from table to table, talking to this person or that. She wasn't paying much attention, but she at least could get away with it. She wished Nana Emmy was with her, wished she had someone she could make eye contact with and get that spark of recognition. 

Her guardian was glaring at her fiance, and her nursemaid was nowhere to be found. She ate her eggs, and when her mother in law introduced her to someone, she would smile and nod and make vaguely agreeable noises. Not much was expected of her - multiple people commented on how beautiful she looked, how excited.

As the meal went on, Mr. Broderick grew quieter. He was shifting in his chair, and he kept asking Marcel to fill his glass of beer from the pitcher on the table, draining it, then getting another refill. It wasn't like him to drink so much, and Tarabeth filed that away as another oddity. 

Maybe he was as nervous as she was? Her hands were sweating - just like her mother's had, apparently - and she was so nervous it was hard to even swallow down her toast. 

* * *

Forty five minutes into breakfast, Mr. Broderick started coughing. 

It was a deep, wet cough, and it was enough to put Tarabeth off of her food. She looked over at him, concerned, and saw him holding a trembling hand over his mouth, his snowy white handkerchief turning red with each rough exhalation. 

Marcel was staring transfixed, and he was trembling, his eyes wide. 

_Please don't pass out_ , Tarabeth thought dazedly. _I can only deal with so many things at once._

Conversation had died down around the tables set around the big room, and one of the men (Lord Aster's husband, Tarabeth's mother in law had said) was getting up and hitting Mr. Broderick on the back, as if he was trying to dislodge a piece of food. 

Mr. Broderick gave another gasping, sputtery cough, and then he gagged. There was a horrible wet sound, and then the white tablecloth was turning red with blood, like ink dropped into milk. He was coughing harder now, and Lord Aster's husband was holding on to his shoulders, trying to keep him upright. 

The blood was flying forward now, and there were gobs in it. She didn't want to look, but she couldn't turn her eyes away. His face was getting redder and redder, and there was blood dripping from his eyes, his nose. He vomited, and it was a great gush of blood and beer and undigested food, a smell so bad it made her own stomach turn. 

Mr. Broderick gave a final, desperate cough, and then he sagged, bending at the knees and falling towards the ground. The whole front of his shirt was sodden with the mess, and when she looked over at Marcel, to see that her fiancé had flecks of blood across his own face, and he was white as a sheet. 

It was a loud, piercing scream, and it seemed to be ripping through her throat, making her chest vibrate. 

Someone slapped her face, the screaming stopped. She was being led away, and she realized there was blood on her. How was there blood on her? She'd been sitting next to him. Poor Marcel would be covered in blood. She was pulled out into the hall by Lord Aster's husband (what was the man's name?), and then Nana Emmy was rushing over, arms open. 

Nana Emmy didn't seem bothered by the blood on Tarabeth's clothing, and she held her close, palm curved around the back of Tarabeth's skull. "I know, love," she said, and her voice was soothing, familiar. "I'm sorry."

"He's dead," Tarabeth said numbly. "He can't be dead, he was just there."

"I'm so sorry, my love," Nana Emmy said. "There will be other men in your life, I promise."

"But... he knew me my whole life," said Tarabeth, and for some reason that seemed so important. "He has a wife," she said, her tongue heavy and thick. "What do we tell her?"

Nana Emmy paused. "What?" She kept holding Tarabeth, stroking her back, but there was a stiffness to her now. 

"Mr. Broderick has died," said Lord Aster's husband. He was a handsome middle aged man, with dark hair gone silver around the temples and a profile that belonged on a Roman coin. 

"Mr. Broderick?" Nana Emmy's own knees went weak. "How...?"

"He's been very sick," said Lord Aster's husband, and then the door behind them opened. 

"There's been a murder!" Tarabeth's mother in law shrieked, and that was simply too much. 

She swooned into Nana Emmy's arms, and the last thing she remembered was the familiar scent of her nurse's perfume, finally drowning out the scent of blood. 

* * * 

Tarabeth woke up on a coach. There was a blanket spread over her, smothering and overbearing in its heat, and a cool cloth on her head.

"Is she alright?" That sounded like her future mother in law. 

"It isn't any business to you, when it was _your_ son who got her in this state in the first place," snapped Nana Emmy. 

"You don't know that it was Marcel," said her future mother in law. "It may have been -"

"Why would Tarabeth want to kill her own guardian?" Nana Emmy sounded angry. 

Tarabeth sat up, shoving the blanket down and dislodging the cloth. "What's going on?" She blinked in the dimness of her future father in law's study, all dark wood paneling and groaning bookshelves. 

"What's going on?" Tarabeth's voice came out as an awkward croak. 

"Poppet, you're not well," said Nana Emmy. "Lie down. I'll get you a nice drink." 

Nana Emmy's idea of a "nice drink" when she was ill was usually equal parts cod liver oil and rum, and Tarabeth could barely stomach it on the best of days. Let alone... now. 

"I'll be fine," Tarabeth said forcefully. "How is Marcel?"

"Arrested," Nana Emmy said shortly. 

"What?" Tarabeth blinked. Too many things happening at once, too much new information.

"He killed Mr. Broderick," Nana Emmy said, and there was a surprising amount of bluntness to her voice. "Your guardian, god rest his soul, was looking for some official paperwork, and found proof of... indiscretion."

"He wouldn't do that," Tarabeth said, and she wasn't sure what she was arguing about. 

"You don't know him, darling," Nana Emmy said, and there was something condescending about the way she said it that made Tarabeth's stomach clench. 

"I'm marrying him today," Tarabeth said. "I have a gown." That seemed very important.

Tarabeth remembered reading about shock. In all of the novels she'd read, when a man experienced shock he was given a brandy to brace himself, and then went on his way. Come to think of it, women didn't usually go into shock, they just had hysterics, and then were possibly bedridden for the rest of the novel, or else died from shock. 

She seemed to have gotten the hysterics over with, at least. 

"The engagement will, of course, have to be called off," Nana Emmy said. "I can't have my darling married off to a _murderer_." She sat down next to Tarabeth, wrapping an arm around her waist. 

"Marcel isn't a murderer," Tarabeth said forcefully. "I'd like to see him." It seemed important that she talk to him. He'd gotten blood all over him, and she'd remembered the story he had told her, about the rat poison.

"He got into an altercation with your guardian, and then your guardian ended up _dead_ ," said Nana Emmy, her tone sharp. "And there's the way that he froze up. Guilt, if ever I saw it."

"Marcel is afraid of blood," Tarabeth said. "I told you, remember? He swooned when he saw my hand cut!"

"Hardly sightly for a husband," Nana Emmy sniffed. 

Tarabeth wanted to cry, or maybe to scream. She'd never been particularly _fond_ of her guardian, but he'd always been there, as dependable as the sun. He had been kind to her, in his awkward, blustery way. 

"I need to see Marcel," she said, because she didn't have anyone else. She didn't want to argue with Nana Emmy, she didn't want to go talk with her future in-laws (ex future in-laws?), she wanted to talk to Marcel.

That was a faint shock. She'd been going out of her way to avoid the man for so long, and now she was deliberately seeking him out. Would wonders never cease?

"He's being held in the jail," said Nana Emmy shortly. "Hardly a place for a young lady."

Tarabeth took a deep breath. _If I start screaming again, I may never stop_ , she thought, dazed. _But what else is there to do?_

"Let's get you home," Nana Emmy said, and her hand went around Tarabeth's shoulders. "You can have a bath, have a sleep. This has been a nasty shock to the system for all of us."

Tarabeth shivered, but she let herself be led away. She wasn't sure what else to do. 

* * *

"I'm going to check in on my mother in law," Tarabeth said, two days later. 

"Darling," said Nana Emmy, "she isn't your mother in law anymore. She technically never _was_ your mother in law." 

"Well," said Tarabeth, "she was kind to me. I'm going to visit her."

"A man died in her house," pointed out Nana Emmy, as she watched Tarabeth putting her shawl on. "You shouldn't be going there - it's bad luck!"

"You taught me to be kind," Tarabeth said, sharper than she intended to be. "She went through something difficult. I'm going to check in on her."

"It isn't proper for you to go alone," said Nana Emmy. She sounded on the verge of losing her temper.

"You're welcome to come with me," Tarabeth said, and she was surprised at the calmness of her own voice. 

"I've things that need doing," said Nana Emmy. 

"I'll take a carriage," said Tarabeth. "I'll be fine," she reassured her nursemaid, and she gave an impromptu hug. "I'm just going to check on her."

Nana Emmy sighed heavily, and she patted Tarabeth on the cheek. "You're far too kind, poppet," she said. 

"I'll be home before dark," said Tarabeth, because she couldn't think of any other response.

* * *

Tarabeth's mother in law (future mother in law? Former mother in law?) looked drawn and pale, and her face opened in surprise when she entered the parlor and saw Tarabeth sitting in a chair. 

"I wasn't expecting you to visit," she said, and her voice was faintly strained. 

"I thought you might be... troubled," Tarabeth said, which was true. She still wasn't sure why she'd decided to do this, but it felt like the right thing to do. _It would help if I could remember the woman's name, admittedly._ "We are family."

Tarabeth's mother in law looked at her with a slightly shocked expression. "Surely you're not going to go through with the wedding," she said, and her tone was downright hollow. "I cannot imagine you wanting to attach yourself to the family of an accused murderer."

"I do not think that Marcel is a murderer," Tarabeth said. "I think that there has been some mistake."

Tarabeth's mother in law's face crumpled up like a paper in the wastebasket, and then she was coming around to wrap her arms around Tarabeth, crying into Tarabeth's neck. 

_This wasn't what I was expecting_ , Tarabeth thought distantly, but she patted her mother in law awkwardly on the back, as the woman sobbed into her neck. 

"After what happened... all those years ago... and I always keep such a close eye on it..." The poor woman was blubbering, babbling like water running from a bucket. "I don't know how it happened, but I _know_ Marcel wouldn't ever do something like that, not after..." She trailed off.

_Again with... whatever it was that happened_ , Tarabeth thought, still patting her mother in law on the shoulder. _I'm going to have to ask Marcel about it, more seriously._

Tarabeth had never been good at other people's feelings - she didn't have a lot of experience with them in general, and when they were thrust on her out of nowhere she ended up wanting to flee. 

_Steady. Stay strong._

"I didn't want to ever see that again," Tarabeth's mother in law sobbed. "I said to myself "Anabella, nobody will ever die like that again under your roof," and now I have broken that promise to myself."

_Anabella! Finally!_ Tarabeth bit back her triumphant smile. "I'm sorry that happened," she told her mother in law. "It must be very hard."

Anabella leaned back, wiping her face with the back of her hand, and she sniffed. 

Tarabeth took her handkerchief out of her pocket, and she handed it over. She tried not to wince when Anabella blew her nose. "Do you... do you know what happened? To Mr. Broderick, I mean."

"He was poisoned," Anabella said, and she dabbed her eyes with the hanky. "Rat poison." She sniffed, and then a fresh wave of sobs. "The same way... it happened all those years ago."

"Right," said Tarabeth. "Do you know... how?"

"It was in his glass, the medical officer said," said Anabella. "It may have been on the cutlery as well, but primarily on the glass."

Tarabeth nodded. "It was a horrible way to die," she said, and she meant it - she still remembered the sounds her guardian made, when she closed her eyes. "But I do not blame you."

"You are far too _good_ ," Anabella wailed, and she threw herself on Tarabeth again, sobbing into her neck.

Tarabeth patted her on the back, and made soothing noises as best she could. "I'm going to visit Marcel," she told Anabella, which hadn't been the original plan, but... well.

She needed some answers. 

* * *

As accorded her station, Tarabeth was given a chair to sit outside of Marcel's small cell. She folded her hands in her lap, and she looked over at her fiance. Former fiance? 

"I didn't do it," Marcel said. His voice was very quiet, and he looked very tired. There was a haunted look in his eyes, and the bars were casting shadows on his face.

"What were you and Mr. Broderick arguing about?" Tarabeth asked. She tried to keep her voice low. There were other people in the cells, although most of them were ignoring her. 

"Nothing important," Marcel said stiffly. 

"It had to be something, if you were arguing," said Tarabeth. 

"I _said_ it was nothing," Marcel snapped. He dragged his hands across his face, tugging on his own hair. It was disheveled, sticking up at odd angles. "Why are you even here?" He glared at her. "There is no conceivable way we're still engaged. Your family wouldn't want to be tied to any scandal."

"I don't _have_ any family," Tarabeth snapped back. 

Marcel looked faintly surprised - this was the first time Tarabeth had ever matched his sulky mood, wasn't it? 

Then again, after the last few days he'd been having, he had every right to be sulky.

"Even if we're not going to be married anymore," Tarabeth said, and her voice was thick, "I don't want you to be sent to jail, or to be hanged."

"I won't be hanged, at least," Marcel said, and he sighed heavily. "My family has enough connections." Then his eyes met hers, and they were burning. "Are my roses being cared for?"

"I'll go back to your parent's house and make sure of it," she told him. 

The tension left his shoulders, and he almost sagged forward with relief. "Thank you," he said, and his voice was very quiet. "I... am sorry."

She reached through the bars, impulsively, and she squeezed his fingers. "We'll sort this out," she said, although she had no idea how. 

He squeezed her fingers back, and then the guard was coming forward, telling her to get away from the bars. 

"I'm going back to your parent's house," she told him. "I can check in on the roses then."

"Can you come visit again?" There was naked desperation in his voice now.

"I'll do my best," she told him. "Nana Emmy... would not be happy about me coming here."

"She doesn't like me," said Marcel.

Tarabeth shrugged. "She doesn't like a lot of people," she said. "But I'll come back," she added. "We'll get to the bottom of this."

He shot her a look of such naked gratitude that her stomach churned. "Thank you," he said, and he was clearly saying it from the bottom of his heart.

* * *

"Nana Emmy?" Tarabeth asked that night, while the two of them sat by the fire.

"Yes?" Her old nursemaid looked up from her knitting. 

"Have you heard any... rumors? About Marcel's family, I mean," said Tarabeth. She was still mulling over what Anabella had said. 

"Oh, plenty," said Nana Emmy. "I can't imagine what Mr. Broderick - may he rest in peace - was thinking, when he set you up with that scoundrel."

"He's hardly a scoundrel," Tarabeth protested, putting her book down in her lap and staring into the flames. 

"He killed a man," Nana Emmy reminded her, "and it's hardly the first time."

Tarabeth looked over at Nana Emmy, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"I've heard... stories," said Nana Emmy, her tone conspiratorial. "Stories about something that happened when he was a child."

"What sort of something?" Tarabeth asked.

"A death," said Nana Emmy. She let the moment linger, the dramatic pause building up. "The death of a child," she added, and there was more drama in her voice than a Christmas pantomime. 

"What child died?" Was this what Anabella had been talking about?

"A servant's child," said Nana Emmy. Another dramatic pause. "The child died in the exact same manner, from the same sort of poison!"

"Oh," said Tarabeth. _The origin of his fear of blood?_

"Really, I don't know why Mr. Broderick didn't do his research," Nana Emmy sniffed. "May he rest in peace," she added hastily.

Tarabeth pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, which didn't do any good to ward off the chill that was building inside of her. She knew, in the marrow of her bones, that Marcel was innocent. 

Although that meant that someone _else_ was guilty. She had eaten beside a murderer, and her Guardian was dead. 

Tarabeth hadn't even realized she was crying until Nana Emmy was scooting closer to her, an arm going around her shoulders. 

"Oh, Poppet," said Nana Emmy. "I know. We'll find you someone else to marry, and you'll be happy. I promise." 

Tarabeth cried into her nursemaid's shoulder, and let herself be held, their shared grief filling the room like mist. 

* * *

"I think I'm going to go back to Anabella's house, pay her a visit," said Tarabeth, a week later. She was in the library, sprawled over her favorite chair. As of late, she'd been... restless. She'd sent a letter to her mother in law about taking care of the roses, and had received one back, letting her know the roses were indeed being taken care of, and that the poor woman was lonely. 

_Nobody is talking to us_ , her mother in law's letter stated, in the woman's surprisingly crabbed handwriting. _I had thought that we had washed the scent of scandal, but it seems that it returns, like a bad smell._

"You don't want to associate with those types," Nana Emmy said darkly. "Especially after what he did to you."

"He didn't do anything to me," Tarabeth said, faintly bewildered.

"He killed your guardian!" Nana Emmy protested, and she let her knitting fall down in her lap.

"That's hardly doing anything to _me_ ," Tarabeth said, taking some refuge in pedantry. "Anyway, he didn't do it."

"I _know_ he did," Nana Emmy insisted. "Mr. Broderick, may he rest in peace, found out his secret, and that's why he killed him!"

"And what was his secret?" Tarabeth's heart was beating very loudly in her ears. "How do you know this? Why haven't you talked to the authorities?" 

"It's not my business," Nana Emmy said primly. "I don't trust the coppers. Coarse, with ideas above their stations." 

"But you trust them to keep Marcel locked up," Tarabeth said flatly. 

"Well," Nana Emmy said primly, "even a stopped clock is right twice a day."

"So what was Marcel's secret?" Tarabeth asked, because it was nagging at her. "And how did you find out?"

"Mr. Broderick told me," Nana Emmy said. "He found letters between Marcel and some common gardener in Yorkshire. Professing their love to each other."

"How did he find the letters?" Tarabeth's stomach was going cold, although she wasn't sure why. It wasn't as if she loved the man.

"He was looking for some other papers," said Nana Emmy, and she waved a hand. "You shouldn't be going out among those people."

"I'm sure there's a perfectly rational explanation," Tarabeth said stiffly. "And I'm going to find it out."

"I raised you better than this," said Nana Emmy, and now her tone was plaintive. "Not to put up with anything like this from anyone you'd marry." 

"I'm not putting up with anything," Tarabeth said wearily. "I just... something doesn't feel right."

"Your intended, who was entirely unsuited for you, I may add, killed your guardian. Of _course_ something doesn't feel right." 

"It's more than that," said Tarabeth, and she scrubbed her face with the heels of her hands. "I can't put my finger on it, but something feels wrong." She paused. "How did he find the letters, again?" 

"He was looking for some papers and he found them instead," said Nana Emmy. "I don't want you going to that house. It isn't proper."

"I am an adult," Tarabeth reminded Nana Emmy, although her voice was shaking as she said it. Some part of her still felt like she was still seven, and Nana Emmy was her whole world. 

"I cannot stop you," Nana Emmy agreed, "but I will advise you not to do it." She sounded very old and very tired. 

Tarabeth didn't say anything, just stared down into her book, not reading the words. 

_I have to do something._

* * *

Tarabeth ended up going to the jail first. She'd meant to tell the coachman to take her to the house, but instead, they were trotting towards the outskirts of the city, towards the jail. 

It was, at the very least, a nicer class of jail. Marcel's family had enough money to keep him from amongst the average murderers.

Not that he was a murderer to begin with.

Tarabeth bit back a groan, and she let the warden place a chair just out of arm's reach of the bars, where her fiance sat on his own chair, looking very tired. 

"I miss the sun," Marcel said, after they'd had their pleasantries. "I miss my roses."

"Your parents are taking care of them," Tarabeth said.

Marcel wrinkled his nose. "They'll be over-watered," he complained, and it took her a moment to realize that he was talking about the roses, and not his parents.

"They love you," Tarabeth said, and her voice was quiet. "I've been visiting your mother."

"She's told me," Marcel said, and he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Thank you," he said, and it was such a genuine thing to say that it squeezed her heart in a vice. "I know I have not always been appreciative of what they've done for me. Of how much they care about me."

Tarabeth's heart was beating very loudly in her ears. "Can I... can I ask a question? Two questions, actually."

"There's not much else to do," Marcel said, and the smile he shot her was humorless.

"Your mother was talking about another death in your house," she said. "A death by poison."

Marcel's face fell, and he shivered. His face looked greenish, even in the dim lighting of the cell. "Well," he said. "Well."

Tarabeth waited, drawing the silence around her. There wasn't any _true_ silence in the prison - there was always the rattle of keys, the slam of cell doors. 

"When I was young," Marcel said haltingly, "I had a friend. A servant's child. My parents haven't always been so... aware of station, and Alfred's mother had been my own nursemaid, and my wet nurse."

Tarabeth nodded. 

"We found... we found some food that had been left out by the cook, because there was a rat problem," Marcel said. There were tears dripping down his face, silent and wet. "And I did not eat any, because we had been given raisin scones for tea, and Alfred didn't like raisins, so I ate his share as well. And then he..." Marcel gave a shuddering sob. "We didn't know there was poison in it. And Alfred ate almost all of it, before..." He trailed off. 

"It's alright," Tarabeth said quickly.

"I saw it happen," Marcel said, and his voice was very blank. "You wouldn't think it would be that quick, would you?"

She remembered the sound of Mr. Broderick's labored breathing, the _smell_. "It felt like ages to me," she said quietly, and she shivered. 

"But," said Marcel, "it was..." He cleared his throat. "That's why I hate blood," he said quietly. 

"I understand," Tarabeth said. "If I had seen that..." She trailed off.

“You had a second question for me,” Marcel said, and she had to commend him for being able to keep track of that, after _that_ memory. 

“Um,” said Tarabeth, because. Well. 

“Yes?” He looked at her, and his eyes were very grey. He seemed to be getting thinner, paler. She could see the hollows of his cheekbones now, and the leanness of his expression made her think of a greyhound, stuck in a kennel. 

“I saw you arguing with Mr. Broderick,” she said haltingly. “Before… before the wedding. And I know that… I know that my Nana was talking about letters.”

Even in the dimness of the cell, she could make out the way his whole face was turning a deep scarlet. He was staring at his own hands, and when he looked back up at her, his eyes were flat. “I have a friend,” he said. “We both grow roses.”

“Nana Emmy -”

“Your nursemaid found them while snooping through my things,” Marcel said, and he raked his hands through his hair, making it stand up at odd angles. “I don’t know why she was looking there in the first place, truth be told.”

Tarabeth frowned. That couldn't be right - Nana Emmy had said Mr. Broderick had found the letters. 

"As for their contents..." Another world weary sigh. He looked very tired, all of a sudden. "I... do not have a lot of friends."

"Neither do I," said Tarabeth. "If it helps any."

He shot her a smile that might have been grateful, might have been self deprecating. "A little," he said. "So..."

Tarabeth resisted the urge to make a _get on with it_ hand motion. That would be cruel. 

"There are... publications, for people like me," he said. 

"People with no friends?" 

"No," he said, and he shot her an annoyed look. It was a familiar look, and it made something in her chest unclench, just a little. So he was still in there. "Rose growers."

"Right," said Tarabeth.

"I put in an ad in one of those magazines, seeking some help with a problem I was having," he said. "Something involving insects," he added, when he caught her inquisitive expression. "But I received a letter from a man in Yorkshire, who also grew roses."

Tarabeth nodded. 

"And... I've never had a friend like that before," he said, and his face went very sad. "I haven't felt that connected to another person since... well, since Alfred."

Tarabeth rested her chin on the palm of her hand, watching him. 

"We would write each other reams and reams of letters," he said, and his face was still faintly sad. "His name is Tom, and he would tell me about his roses, about his animals, his other crops." He sighed, and it was a very tired sigh. "You must think me pathetic, to fall in love with a farmer for how he talks about his roses."

Tarabeth shrugged. She rubbed her temples, trying to fight off the headache that was starting to build. She hadn't expected him to be in love with her - she didn't think she was in love with him. 

_I had hoped we'd at least build up to it_ , thought some uncharitable part of her. 

"He is married," said Marcel. "Newly. And while our letters were very passionate about how much we cared for each other... there was never anything unchaste. And I stopped writing him, when I was notified of our engagement." His face was even sadder, and it made Tarabeth's stomach curdle.

"I would never ask you to give up your only friend," Tarabeth said quietly. "Even if you were in love with him."

"That would be unfair to you," Marcel said, and she was surprised at how fierce he sounded while he said it. "I know that neither of us agreed to this marriage... would have agreed to this marriage." He made a face. "I do not think we are still getting married."

"I would be willing to marry you," she said, "when we get you out of jail."

"Why?" Marcel asked, and the bluntness of it was enough to bring a startled smile to her face. 

"Because," Tarabeth said, "I have met you, and while you are somewhat unagreeable, I can imagine us being happy. You would not keep me from my library, and I would not keep you from your roses."

He sighed, and he leaned back in the chair in his cell. His hair was still in wild spikes, and her fingers itched to smooth it down. "My grandmother was in love with someone else," he told her, his voice quiet. "I remember that she loved me very much, and that she was very sad in a way that I did not understand. I also know that it hurt my grandfather, because he loved her with all of his heart. And I would not want to do that to anyone."

"I am not in love with anyone else," Tarabeth told him. "I... do not know if I will ever inspire fondness, let alone passionate feelings in someone else. I do not inspire them in myself."

He looked at her, all wide grey eyes and tousled hair, and just for a moment he was the protagonist of one of her novels. "You have already inspired fondness in me," he told her. "You have been very kind to me."

"You did not kill Mr. Broderick," Tarabeth said, and she was faintly surprised at the vehemence in her own voice. "I know that." 

"It should have been me," Marcel said, and now he sounded sad again. "He took my seat, do you remember?"

"No," Tarabeth said, although it was as if a wheel had started to turn in her head. "No, I had forgotten that." In truth, it was all a blur. She remembered the look on Marcel's face, flecked with blood, and the _smell_.... 

"And after all that work everyone put into setting up that breakfast," Marcel said, his tone sad. "I know your nursemaid was very much looking forward to it."

"Was she?" That was news to Tarabeth, although she had been dragged hither and yon for fittings and meeting different people. 

"Her, my mother, and the butler worked very hard to set up everything. She was one of the people who arranged the place settings. She was the one who wanted to sit us next to each other."

"I... see," said Tarabeth. 

An idea was beginning to form. An idea that made her sick to her stomach - almost sicker than the memory of what happened to Mr. Broderick. 

"Tara?" Marcel's voice shook her out of her reverie. 

"I'm going home," she told him, and she reached through the bars, impulsively squeezing his fingers. "I'm going to be back for you. I promise."

"Thank you," he said, and the naked gratitude in his voice made her stomach twist up uncomfortably. 

* * *

"How was tea with the murderer's mother?" Nana Emmy asked over dinner.

"It was very nice," said Tarabeth, because she was not going to rise to the bait. "She mentioned you helping her set up the breakfast."

"Did she?" Nana Emmy took a sip of her tea, her pinky extended the way it always was when she drank her tea. 

"I'm glad you helped her," Tarabeth said. "She said she had been feeling very flustered." 

_I don't want it to be true_ , she thought, looking her nursemaid in the face. _Why would she do it?_

"One does what one must," Nana Emmy said, and her tone was downright _serene_. "Of course, now you don't need to marry him, so we can find you a more suitable match. Someone closer to your station."

"How am I going to find a match, if Mr. Broderick is dead?" Tarabeth asked, and she tried to keep her tone calm and even. Her hands were shaking, and she shoved them into her lap, squeezing her fingers together until her knuckles ached. 

"We'll figure something out," Nana Emmy said, and she sounded very confident. "It'll be simpler, with me doing the looking for you. That fertilizer prince was nowhere near good enough for you. You trust me, don't you, my dove?"

"Nana Emmy," said Tarabeth, "would you be willing to make me one of your plum cakes?" She tried to make herself sound normal, to _not_ sound scared. She was faintly worried she was going to be sick. 

"A plum cake?" The familiar old face crumpled up, eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle. "Whatever for?"

"I just... I've been feeling so scared," Tarabeth said, and now she let her voice wobble. "With Mr. Broderick, and..." She shivered, and she let Nana Emmy come around, to wrap an arm around her shoulders. She leaned her face into the black wool of her nursemaid's bosom, and she inhaled the familiar scents of cold cream and rosewater and flour.

"Oh, poppet," Nana Emmy said, and she sounded very sad, her voice echoing through her chest. Her fingers stroked through Tarabeth's hair, and Tarabeth sighed, letting herself take the little bit of comfort. "Of course. I'll have to go to market to get the plums, but they're still in season, I believe."

"Thank you," Tarabeth said, and she meant it. She wasn't sure what the gratitude was for, but she felt it in her guts, mingling with the terror.

It was not a very pleasant sensation. 

* * *

Tarabeth waited until she'd heard the kitchen door close the next morning, before she practically _ran_ into Nana Emmy's bedroom. She'd been in here a few times - she'd learned early on that privacy was a welcome thing, and tried to grant that same gift to Nana Emmy. She felt like a traitor, as she began to rummage through the different drawers. 

_What am I even looking for? It isn't as if I'll find a letter with all her plans written out, or something like that_ , Tarabeth thought, as she opened a drawer and ruffled through it. _A letter with "ha ha ha, I did it" in her handwriting?_

* * *

Ten minutes later, she found the next best thing in the loose floorboard next to the overstuffed old chair beside the window. She wasn't technically supposed to know about that spot - Nana Emmy had hidden a book she hadn't wanted Tarabeth to read there, and Tarabeth had snuck up after her and watched her place it. 

She hadn't thought about it in years, but she stared down into the dark little space now, hands sweaty. 

It was a bottle. It was a bottle of rat poison, specifically. She could see it written. And there was one of the special napkins that Tarabeth's mother in law had ordered tied around it, white with gold edging, and _that_ was all wrapped in Nana Emmy's silk scarf, the one that Tarabeth had bought her for Christmas the year before. It was painted with little violets, and Nana Emmy had said it was the nicest thing she'd ever been given.

And now it was wrapped around a bottle of rat poison, and the fancy napkins her mother in law had bought for the wedding breakfast, because there had to be special napkins for breakfast as well as the wedding itself. 

Tarabeth carefully, mechanically placed the floorboard back. She took the scarf, the napkin, the letters, the poison. She made her way back to her room, and she put all of them into a bag. She moved as if in a trance, putting on her stockings, her shoes, and walking out the door. 

* * * 

Marcel looked at her, startled, when she walked in. She walked straight to the bars, and she clutched his hand tightly in hers, resting her forehead against the bars. 

“Tarabeth?” He sounded confused, and more than a little out of his depth.

“When you come out,” she said quietly, “we will take your roses and my library, and we will go someplace far, far away.”

“You think I’ll be able to leave?” He sounded very tired. 

“I have proof,” she said, and her voice was still very quiet. “I am going to go to the authorities. I promise. But… first. Please. Tell me about your roses.”

“Well,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “I’m getting closer to the purple…”

She let his talk wash over her, holding his fingers so tightly that her knuckles ached. Tears dripped down her face, and she let the grief of her loss - of her guardian, of the woman who raised her - wash over her like a wave.

She imagined it smelled faintly of roses, and the sickly iron of blood.


End file.
